


Tithonus

by Mist_Over_Water



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2012-09-03
Packaged: 2017-11-13 11:21:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mist_Over_Water/pseuds/Mist_Over_Water
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred F. Jones is the personification of the United States of America; Arthur Kirkland is simply an Englishman looking to kick start his career in the states. They meet in a bar, and after a one night stand, Arthur has a very important question that needs answering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tithonus

**Author's Note:**

> For the OTP contest in #Contestalia on deviantART

**Part I**

Alfred F. Jones ordered a screaming orgasm for the man at the opposite end of the bar; hoping that it would be foreshadowing how his night was going to end. The bartender could barely hear him over the thumping that ricocheted throughout the building, where many—being an understatement—danced, illuminated by the pulsating and moving lights. When the order was finally placed, the man behind the bar got to mixing the Irish Cream, Vodka and Kahlua into a cocktail before giving it to the gentleman who looked far too well dressed for a nightclub. The two men talk before his target for the night looks his way as their waiter points. Alfred tried to play it cool under the watchful gaze, but the caterpillars settling above his eyes sent subconscious shivers down his spine.

Alfred soon found himself sipping a 'sex on my face', courtesy of the man with the eyebrows.

Men and women made themselves known to Alfred's prey, but he always brushed them off; all the while, ogling each other with interested eyes, mentally undressing one another. It was difficult for Alfred as the man's attire in no way showed off his form. It excited him in some ways, if one of them ever made their way to the other, then he would be unknowing of what lay beneath those layers of fabric; he would unwrap him like a child at Christmas, before the same would be done to himself—clothed in the usual shirt and, what he had dubbed, 'smart; trousers (with his usual bomber jacket back in the car), his adorned choices refused to give the other man so much as a glimpse of his muscular arms and chest. The older looking man took the final sip of his cocktail before licking the remnants of the concoction away, using only the tip of his tongue; flicking it over the top lip and closing his eyes. Alfred was somewhat taken aback from the show of confidence, and deduces him as a deity of sensuality. A God of seduction.

The man stood, Alfred's vision never strayed from him, never even wavering for a second. A smirk appeared upon Alfred's face, noticing the way in which the shorter male swayed his hips as he walked to his end of the bar. They were face to face for several long seconds before the man with the eyebrows reached out a hand, "Arthur Kirkland." The English accent felt like an aphrodisiac to Alfred; and it did not help that the bright green eyes are staring straight into his should—into the very fibre of his being. A sly smile adorning his soft face, which appears to be a pleasing hybrid of feminine and masculine. The man was short and thin, but Alfred momentarily wondered if he was hiding muscular features underneath the almost 'nerdy' clothing he wears that he works so well, or if the skin beneath would feel soft beneath his callous fingers. The blond hair seemed to be in a tidy mess, and with the light coming from behind him, he almost seemed like an angel; the hair forming an almost halo over him.

With these observations, Alfred thought that it was understandable that he took the fingers in his own hand, bowed his head and kisses the knuckles of Arthur. "Alfred F. Jones." And the slightly salty skin absorbed his introduction. He looked back up, letting go of the smaller hand, "Can I buy you a drink?" He wanted to know how the vodka tastes on the man's thin lips, and as if reading his thoughts, they curved back into a smirk, a playful glinting in the eyes making him seem as if he was twelve; he leant against the bar and with half lidded eyes said in a playfully flirtatious manner:

"Do you usually buy random men drinks?"

Alfred laughed, asking the bartender for a beer, and exchanging it for a few dollars, before replying to Arthur, "Only the best looking in the room. Anyway, I coulda asked the same thing. 'Sex on my face'?" He shakes his head and flashes the best Hollywood smile he can muster, getting as close to the man as he can, "Tryin' to hint somethin'?" With those eyebrows raised, Alfred knows what the man was implying; that he was the one to start it. "So I guess I should admit that I was hinting that we could finish the night with a bang—"

He was cut off as Arthur laughs at him, a laugh that was in no way, shape or form held back, "You've got some balls. Who do you think you are? You barely know me."

Alfred nods, taking a sip from his bottle and turns his attention to Arthur. "Fine. You're English, how did you end up in the good ol' US of A?" He listened intently, but just barely. As his lips had some kind of magnetic pull to his eyes; he barely held himself back to pull the man into a tentative embrace and pushing their lips together. Through imagining what the two would be able to do later that night, he managed to pick up that he was twenty-three, a recently discovered homosexual and had moved to America from England a year ago to pursue his dream of being an editor of a magazine. Alfred asked if he was single; his brain and sexual organs want to scream happily when it was revealed that he was, and the American was asked to tell about himself. He told that he was twenty-one, gay ("duh") and did not reveal his occupation. Alfred told that he was just out of a relationship as his boyfriend moved back to the Russia to do whatever he wanted to do, he did not care. He was bothered about as much as he desperately wanted to get laid that night; which he revealed to the wood of the bar, much to Arthur's amusement.

Kirkland smirked, watching the man mourn his dry spell, "I could help you," he began, softening his voice and turning his index finger around the cowlick atop the American's head. "But I only allow special men to take me home with them. Good looking men. Men with big hearts, among… Other things. Men who know what to do with what he's got. Who treats me right, and most of all." He paused, giving enough time for Alfred to look up in wonder, before moving closer and whispering in his with lips brushing over skin, "And they have to be particularly amazing with their mouth."

"Oh?"

"Kissing, especially. They have to know what they are doing; be able to seduce me with just the feel of our lips being pressed together, leave me absolutely breathless when we pull away after having invading each other's mouths." He was practically purring at this point, and just barely managed to contain his gasp as Alfred pulled him close; a mischievous glint in his eye showing that he was accepting the challenge. Closing his eyes gently, he rid of the gap between their faces; at first it was an innocent first kiss, but when they pulled away, the two looked each other over; taking in how the other looked, blue meeting green.

The two practically smashed their faces together thereafter, parting their lips slightly, and allowed their tongues to meet somewhere in between the two wet caverns. Arthur placed his hands on the American's waist, and digs his fingernails in lightly; Alfred stopped stroking the smaller man's tongue to prod around the mouth before him, feeling the soft ridges of the roof of his mouth and the insides of his cheeks, trying his hardest to draw out a moan from the Briton. It only happened when he sucked on the intruding appendage, attempting to copy his movements. They went back to tentatively stroking each of the muscles, pulling back barely half an inch to take a breath before continuing where they left off.

As soon as Alfred's hand rested on Arthur's backside, they knew how the night will end.

\- - - - - - - - - -

**Part II**

Looking back on his story, Alfred realises that the night was a blur.

They had barely made it back to Arthur's apartment, rutting against one another, gasping and just needing that friction. They ended up on any flat surface that was within their reach; the dining room, the kitchen work surfaces, the sofa before finally falling onto the bed; Arthur silently thanked himself for only recently stocking up on lubricant. The night was fall of gasps, flesh and wanton moans. They were equal; taking turns being on their knees, being on their back, being pressed against the wall. Whilst one was recovering, they would take turns servicing the other with hands and mouths. A thick musk of sex and sweat covering the room, and no doubt seeping into the rest of the living space.

Arthur was surprised that the man had no off button, taking it for him to pass out for Alfred to finally just stop and wake up the next morning covered in bodily fluids and the liquid from the bottle that lay empty on the bedside cabinet after such excessive use; strong arms wrapped around him, and the strong chest on which he used as a pillow. He watched the slight form of abs rise and fall with each breath, seemingly wrapped around a thin layer of fat; the skin had been broken multiple times throughout the young man's life, he deciphered from the scars that littered the chest before him.

The bed groaned beneath him as he stood and made his way to the kitchen as quietly as possible, the night before had been too good to miss out on again. Admittedly, he was never good at one night stands, and despite the way he talked about the subject, love and sex was something that he found difficult to separate. It was for the very reason that Alfred had woken up to the same scent as his one-night lover had woken up to, with the added poignancy of eggs, sausages, bacon, beans and toast. It took the American a little while to realise that he was not at home; sitting up in bed, the material dipped at the extra weight of a person.

"Good morning," Arthur said, smiling and placing the tray on the American's lap, "I've got some towels ready for you. I don't know about you but I rather dislike walking around with the remains of the night before still on me." He watched the morning light hit the face before him just perfectly to show off each stray hair on his face, and the strong outline of his jaw; drawing every ounce of courage he could find, he moved closer to Alfred, and kissed him on the lips, drawing a line from his lips and down his neck. "Maybe I can join you and we can have a morning session?"

"I- I don't have time for breakfast," He tried to pull away and get as far away from the face trying to kiss him as he could, pushing the tray back into the British mans' hands, "But I'll take you up on the shower. You know… By myself." Arthur nodded, and took the cooking out of the room, as he left telling his bed mate where the bathroom and the towels were before turning the water on and stepping under the steady stream. The water felt more than good over his aching limbs; the aches that tell what they had done the night before, and being able to wash the semen from his chest and legs and… Pretty much everywhere else felt almost remarkable. Admittedly, it had been a while since he had woken up in someone else's bed. There was a good reason too, and with a start, he froze in cleaning his hair to try and think what happened, any conversation that they may have had.

Had he told the Brit…?

It was around the time that thought crossed his mind; Arthur was sitting in the bedroom, sitting on the bed and trying to think of a way to ask for the American's phone number. The previous night was barely a blur, but he could remember some of the touches, some of the times they had made love—fucked?—and whilst it was true he had not had many sexual partners it probably was one of the best times he had had, it was almost as if Alfred knew everything about him, everything that made him go insane with lust. A ringing sound brought him from his thoughts, and he looked down to the black pair of trousers that had been thrown down in the heat of the moment; picking them up, he looked through each of the pockets before finding the Apple iPhone. The name on the screen reading 'The Boss', at first he considered ignoring the call, but seeing as it was nearing eleven in the morning, he answered. "Ar—"

"America? Where are you? You were supposed to be here two hours ago!" Arthur was about to continue with his introduction, but Alfred's boss seemed not to take a breath before he continued to say, "I know you are still upset, but you need to be with the rest of the nations to see the England representative—"

"This isn't Alfred, sir. This is Arthur. Can I take a message?" He furrowed his brow, feeling anger beginning to take over his veins; was the man he met the previous night lying about his name? America was generally considered a feminine name to say the least, but he did not think anything less of the man for what his parents had named him. After a quick apology and a message for Alfred—America?—to call him back as soon as possible, the phone was hung up. The silence did nothing to drown out the questions racing about in Arthur's head as he looked down to the device in his hand, and with a heavy heart, he opens the contacts and presses 'add new contact'; pressing the numbers of his phone and hesitating when it came down to the name. Instead of opting for Arthur Kirkland, he decided to go for 'Last Night's Shag', grimacing that maybe he would look at it later on and wonder who it was. After receiving a phone call, he could save it to his own mobile telephone, and—Arthur paused. Why was he thinking this way? He had barely known the man for twelve hours, and yet… Something about him screamed that they had known each other for a lifetime.

When Alfred got back from his shower, adorned in only a towel draping around his waist, they did not talk. Instead, the rest of the morning is spent in silence, with just the message being relayed breaking that. Arthur never found out if it was his own anger or Alfred's awkwardness of the situation which caused it.

\- - - - - - - - - -

**Part III**

Life had gotten almost back to normal after that night; Arthur continued to work in his office, he continued being single, and he continued with his mundane routine, never letting it go out of place. It was not like he sometimes waited by his phone, or answered whenever it would ring with his heart pounding with anticipation, no. Definitely not. He was a gentleman, and gentleman did not lost their composure over stupid men who seemed like they could have been the one, who knew how to give mind-blowing sex, and who ultimately lied about their name. He groaned, sitting at the bar this mess had begun in, ignoring the talking about him. Ignoring the music and the putrid stench of sweat and alcohol.

However, he could not ignore the feel of the American's strong hand on his shoulder. "'Last Night's Shag'?" Alfred—America?—asked, taking a seat beside Arthur, placing a bottle of beer on the wooden bar top. The British man tensed as Alfred—Ameri-? Oh, damn it, he did not even know what to call the damned man nowadays—snaked an arm around his waist, and moved closer, ensuring that his nose was on the others ear. He noticed the slight swaying in his seating, and the strong stench of the beverage that he had been drinking. He probably had had a lot more than just the one drink. "I thought your name was Arthur? Y'shoulda told me I was screamin' the wrong name…"

Arthur grunted, wanting to move away but not finding it in himself to will his muscles to do so. Instead he shivered at the hot breath going over his skin, "I could say the same to you. But now is not the time to be talking about it." And it seemed not even a second after he had uttered these words that the American had grabbed him by his arm and pulled him into the restroom. Pushing the shorter male against the wall Whatever-He-Was-Called pressed against him, arms wrapped around his neck and leaning forward to push their faces together. Arthur tried to push away, but the man before him was an exhibition of unfathomable strength it seemed as he refused to move even an inch. "What's your name?"

Whatever-He-Was-Called turned his head; beginning an assault on the pale neck that Arthur had put on display when trying to force the American off of him. He kissed and nipped and licked each piece of the flesh, trying to pass on the lust that was pumping through his veins—accompanied by the alcohol, of course. "Alfred, I told you, baby." His hands began to join; instantly jumping to the other mans behind to push their crotches together. Although it was supposed to be sexual, he decided not to begin any activities until the other replaced the anger in his expression with one that was flustered. One that was hot and ready to go. In an attempt to initiate this transition, he began to massage the flesh and the muscle beneath his fingertips, alas, he never got the reaction he was looking for.

"Why did your boss call you 'America'?" Arthur grabbed Whatever-He-Was-Called's face, and pulled it upwards to look at him, "I don't mind. It's a feminine name, but I think you have enough room in your looks for that. I won't judge, just tell me the truth." His heart dropped at the furrowing of the brows displayed by Alfred (?), and the slackened grip on his backside—which he definitely was not enjoying. "Are you America or Alfred?" He asked again, but after a short while of silence, just the two assessing the look in the one another's eyes, the American stood and turned around without warning. Arthur groaned in annoyance, reaching out to grab the hand that had been harassing him moments prior, "Answer me!"

Arthur never expected to be hit as Alfred turned around, "Get off me!" He yelled, and although the strike was not particularly hard, the shock was enough to make him stumble back to the wall, holding his face where the other hand had been. "What if I don't wanna tell you! You wouldn't put your name in my phone, instead you call yaself 'Last Night's Shag'! What kind of person does that!?" The two stared at each other, and although the music from the other room was leaking through to where they were, the silence between them seemed to scream louder than any other noise that they heard, and for a moment, Arthur began to question any motive that the two of them could get to know each other better, and any thought of a relationship that the two had a potential to be a couple.

Without another word, Alfred turned and left. When Arthur went back to the bar, he did not see the American again.

\- - - - - - - - - -

" _You have one new message, received today at ten seventeen AM._ "

" _Arthur, I'm so sorry! Fuck. I dunno what made me do it, I was angry and… I've got a confession to make. I'll tell you now. Through this method, so I don't have to worry about how you'd react until you feel comfortable enough to see me. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hit ya, man. But… I guess I owe you answers. My name… God. How do I say this? It's both. It's America and Alfred. My official name… It's. Oh God, Arthur, you're gonna think I'm lyin' but I'm not! I'm tellin' the God's honest truth. I'm… the… I'm the United States of America!_

" _I'm two-hundred and thirty six years old. My birthday is July fourth. I'm the embodiment of a country. I am a country. I stand for the land mass, and the people that inhabit it. I know this might freak you out. That's why we got told not to tell any humans. But honestly… I felt such a connection with you, Artie. Which… Is strange considering you're not one of mine… But, I'd like to meet with you. Go for coffee and talk about if ya wanna give us a go. I'll… Text ya my address. Come and see me. Thanks, and sorry for droppin' this on ya… Last Night's Shag._ "

\- - - - - - - - - -

**Part IV**

America knew he had made a huge mistake.

As soon as he had put the phone down upon leaving the message for Arthur Kirkland, in the hazy phase between drunk and sober, he regretted it. A part of him wished that they were just a one night stand and that was that, but another part of him felt as though they should be together, for reasons that he could not quite fathom. He hated himself—truly detested himself—the internal battle between the forces of love and lust against the feeling of duty of his job (or even who and what he was) battled fruitlessly. Distracting him from sleeping, from practically functioning.

Even at the World Meeting, he stared blankly at the German introducing the schedule, barely hearing that it was his turn to speak, he shook his head, trying to rid of any thoughts of the British man as he stood; ignoring the groans, sighs and mutterings of how much of a waste of time this was, that he never had any good ideas. Generally, as soon as he stands, he began to sprout ideas, but this time, he looked around the representatives of the world. "I'm sorry," He said after a moment of reflective silence, "Germany… May I speak to you for a moment?" After a short pause, he adds quietly, looking down to his papers and shuffling them, "Outside?"

The German groaned, but nodded anyway, and the two made their way to the corridor outside of the room. America had a feeling that the other countries were more than likely pressing their ears against the door to know what was bothering the happy-go-lucky nation, but turned around anyway. Never had he been intimidated by the broader nation before, but as he looked down his clothing, and began to pat them down in an attempt to rid of the creases, he found it difficult to make the words come out, "America, we do not have time for this. We have a schedule to go by, so please state your business so we can continue."

"I've done something horrible." Alfred began, and with one breath he told the story about the bar and how the man with the eyebrows had enticed him silently to spend the night, and under the influence of alcohol and lust he could not find the strength to say no. All the while, Germany's expression showed that he knew what was to come, and so he ended his short tale of romance (questionable phrasing): "I- I told an English citizen my true identity, and I know it's a bad idea! And I know I'm not supposed to, but… I just." He looked down to the floor, his glasses slipping down his nose as he closed his eyes and sighed: "He just looked like—"

"It doesn't make it any less right." The German's voice was hinting at the fact that he was angry, but the expression across his features showed that he sympathised with the younger nation; he was young, after all, and as of yet had very little experience in the art of coping with loss—well, compared to the rest of the world. "I know this has been hard on you, but this is going to make things worse. If you end up being together for a long time, then you are going to have to let him go again. If you don't last… There's a chance that he might tell everyone about our true identities."

America did not need to hear any more; it would be best if he did not tell anyone else about his relationship—or potential. He took his phone from his pocket as Germany went back to the meeting, and just as he had thought, there was still no reply from 'Last Nights Shag'.

\- - - - - - - - - -

**Part V**

There was a knock on the door, and with a disgruntled groan, America pushed himself from off the couch. Not even bothering to look through the peephole to see who it was as he opened the door. The blood drained from his face as he saw the man from the bar—Arthur Kirkland, Last Night's Shag—standing in the corridor. Nude shoulders being lit just perfectly by the dim bulbs outside his apartment; the half lidded green eyes sent pleasant shocks down his spine. A lump in his throat formed when he noticed the red, white and blue flag wrapped around his figure; the shoulders implying that underneath the American flag, he was completely nude. A part of him wanted to say how distasteful it was, whilst the other side that was being overpowered by lust was telling him that it was probably the sexiest image he had ever had the privilege of seeing.

The smaller man dropped the edges that he was holding, pushing them over his shoulder to keep them there, and moved closer to the American. Taking a deep breath, he began to say in a slow, quiet and shaking voice, "I- I pledge allegiance to the flag…" The front of their bodies pushed together, one naked and one clothed, and in the heat of the moment they seemed to fit together perfectly. Alfred—America!?—held Arthur by his waist and pulled him into the flat, "of United States of America." The blue eyes that mirrored the skies in the warm southern states met his own, and as they were entranced in just looking at one another as the Brit pushed the door shut with his foot, he continued, "And to the Republic for which it stands."

America could not help but smiled, watching the soft lips move as the words were uttered. The words of complete loyalty and dedication for the nation; and although millions of his citizens said it daily, he could not help but bite his lip, waiting for Arthur to finish the oath, and although he had been mature for almost two hundred years, and had seen many sexual partners in his time, nothing he had ever done was as sensual as the words that were being rolled about his—probably—soon-to-be partners tongue. "One nation under God…" His voice trailed off as he began to kiss each expanse of skin, kissing over his neck, over his collar bone and just above his flat chest the was level with his eyesight. "Indivisible."

The flag that was hiding his back was dropped, looking up to the American; he smiled with a flush spreading over his cheeks, knowing once more where the night was headed as he stood in his purest form against the nations fully clothed form. He grasped the bottom of the blue hoodie, pulling it upwards and over his head, stopping momentarily to look over the scars, tracing each one with delicate fingers as he read American history, trying to render which came from which war, which even. Even softer fingers pulled him from his reverie, a smile telling him that there was enough time in the world for Arthur to learn everything he had ever wanted to know about the United States of America.

The two moved closer, too slowly in each other's eyes, but wanted to take in the feeling of their hitched breath brushing over each of their faces as half lidded eyes met; fingers gliding to feel the hair beneath the pads of their fingers, before finally meeting in a chaste kiss. Arthur Kirkland pushed the button of America's jeans through the hole, and began unzipping the piece of clothing, smirking against the chapped lips as his hand brushed against a half-mast member. He pushed the pair of jeans and boxers down slightly, allowing them to fall the rest of the way to the floor, America stepped out of the clothing. He pulled away from the kiss and whispered, "With liberty and justice for all."

With those words, America cupped the Briton's backside, massaging the flesh there with—what Arthur thought to be—too enthusiastic fingers. Lifting him up, and continuing the kiss as he stumbled about the flat, continuing the kiss, but this time, allowing their tongues to fight for dominance, to run along one another, to try and memorise the feel of each other's mouths, and know where on their bodies they would like to be touched. America smirked at the Brit's muffled complaints as a hand slipped under the clothing, and he began playing with the flesh that made his behind. The two seemed to be able to know where what was of each other's body, even blindly. Knowing their bodies better than their own; maybe that was the power of true love. America would hate himself later for such cliché thoughts.

The feeling of the wall behind Arthur was nearly as comforting as the hands on his backside lifting him up, or the body rocking against him. Swallowing the moans that emanated from each of their mouths; the Brit never thought he would say he loved the United States of America with every molecule that made him, but even with a short amount of time they had known one another, something felt right. The feeling that novels and poets write about; the thing that people dream about. Arthur praised the country like a deity, throwing his head back and crying to a God, any God, to bless the man pounding—not even pounding, pushing in and out, almost sliding, as if it was the most natural thing to do—into him.

Even as he moaned with his mouth away from the other, Alfred kissed his form. Pressed his lips against the sweat slicken skin, the perspiration that allowed them to slide together perfectly; no commands coming from either of them, Alfred knew when to go faster, when to go harder, which angle to aim, and Arthur in turn knew when to thrust his body down, when to clench his muscles. It seemed only natural that they reached between them at the same time; bringing them both to completion.

\- - - - - - - - - -

**Part VI**

There was a secret of Arthur Kirkland that he did not know; all of the countries he had met at the world conference knew, and America knew. It made all of the nation's stare at him with shock, America honestly hoped that Arthur had not noticed the rather stale atmosphere that hung about the room as a human watched what their meetings generally consisted of. It was unusually for this occurance to happen, yes, but there seemed something slightly… Different. But all during the car journey home, Arthur had been watching the world pass quietly. America tried to reason with himself that it was because how strange it must have been to know that the people he had spent the day with were technically not people—

"What was wrong with them?"

—Fuck

"They kept acting… Strange around me," Arthur said as the two made their way inside America's house, and as a habit, made their way straight for the kitchen; Jones straight away beginning to make dinner for the two. "I understand that it must have been strange for them to see someone not like them in the room, but honestly. It seemed that most of them spent the majority of the time looking at me than paying attention to the actual meeting! It's moronic!" He sat down at the breakfast bar on the outskirts of the kitchen, rubbing his forehead and continuing to mumble to himself.

Alfred knew that it was wrong, but he had gone against the main protocol so far, so what was it to give away a secret of someone else's history? He sat down beside Arthur, and took his hand, feeling over the skin that had been made slightly rough by hours of working with plants in the garden. "It was my fault, okay? You just have to know that first, and don't ask any questions. I guess… We decided to date before. I was selfish, I'm not going to lie. You had work to do, I just wanted you to myself. Your boss got angry with you for slacking on your work, and… I done something stupid. I- I gave you the choice between him or me, and you just left; I thought you had decided to choose him.

"You came back drunk—which wasn't any surprise, you generally do, but… This time you were in tears—well. Actually you usually come back in tears, Telling me that after the revolution you didn't want to lose me again, but you had duties to fulfil… And that you couldn't choose from between me or your boss. Things… Pretty much went downhill from there. I'll spare you the worst of the details, but all you need to know is that… They decided to get a new representative. No one knows how, or even who done this. But the next thing I knew, I was seeing you about. That's why I brought you that drink that night… I had to protect you from making the same mistakes again. I can't let you hurt yourself because of stupid people, or responsibilities, or anything. You see?"

And for the life of him, the once personification of England, now known as Arthur Kirkland, could not think of anything to say.

\- - - - - - - - - -

**Part VII**

"So… Different parts of you represent different states?"

"Yeah…"

Arthur lay on his side in bed, looking over the nude form of his lover, running a hand up and down his torso, feeling the warmth that radiated from his slightly tanned skin; if what he was saying was the truth, then he guessed the warmth was from the heat that was present in the different states. He placed a hand on the others hip, and rubbed the skin with his thumb, "Do you think you could tell me? Or I could at least guess as to where certain states are… Like Florida?" America chuckled and nodded, pulling his hand up to his chest.

"My heart is Washington D.C.; it isn't in a state, per say. It's its own district; has its own government." He watched Arthur for a moment, how his eyes were fixated on where his fingers where pressed against, where the beating of the muscle beneath muscle, skin and bones. He moved the hand toward his right breast. "Even though it's not in a state, it's between two states that offered their land to the city. What are they?" Really, he knew it was a stupid question to ask the Brit; he knew little of the geography and history of the United States now that he was no longer dubbed 'England', and so when the other looked up with adorable lost green eyes, he answered for him, "This is Maryland, and," he moved the hand to the other side of his chest, "And this is Virginia."

It was only when Arthur's hand was moved from where America's heart was he noticed a scar running down his chest, and Alfred prayed silently that he did not ask where he got the imperfection. How could he say that a past version of himself burnt his heart to the ground? Fortunately, his vision and touch travelled downward. "All these are from different points in your history?" Arthur was a little shocked to see how many were practically invisible, lest the viewer looked closely at the skin; however, there were some that were thick, that looked like they had only recently healed over.

"Arthur, we can talk about that another day. I wanna tell you about the better parts of me…" Taking the hand again, he put it on his hair, manipulating his fingers to grip the cowlick. "This represents Nantucket. It's an island just south of Cape Cod. And by the blank look on your face, I'm going to guess that you have no idea where that is." He laughed, letting the hand go to allow Arthur to run his hand through the blond hair. "That's Massachusetts." He reached behind him to the bedside table to retrieve his spectacles, "This is Texas—fuck!"

He was caught off guard as his backside was grabbed; a coy smirk playing about Arthur's lips, "And this is? Fuck… The state with the Grand Canyon… Arizona?" Alfred laughed and nodded, pulling his hands away; not wanting this lesson to be sexual, but apparently Arthur was getting agitated, probably even bored, at what America had to say. "Alright, that's good. But… You said I was once the representation of England. I'm guessing that… Different parts of be were different counties? Where were they?"

"I only knew of two. Norfolk and Suffolk."

"Where were they?"

By this point, Arthur had already jumped in surprise as he too was groped from behind; Alfred having a strong grasp on two pieces of flesh, pulling him into a kiss. He guessed that was the best answer he was going to get.

\- - - - - - - - - - -

**Part VIII**

_Thou seëst all things, thou wilt see my grave:  
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn;  
I earth in earth forget these empty courts,  
And thee returning on thy silver wheels_

As his health faltered, and his once ash-blond hair turned a unique shade of white, Arthur Kirkland found himself enticed in the story of Tithonus; he himself had loved an immortal woman, and had had the chance to ensure their love remained for as long as her beauty had; a blessing which soon turned into a curse. Whenever something would appear in their life together that would threaten his mortality, he would read the story, would look over the poetry of Lord Alfred Tennyson, which had been inspired by the tale. Whenever Alfred would come home from a busy workday and find Arthur weeping at the reality that was he would curl behind him in bed, holding him as tightly as he could.

As the lines on Arthur's face began to form, Alfred stayed his nineteen-year old self. As happy and obnoxious as ever; the world watched as America tried to keep his lover—who became husband after a few bumpy years of dating—from slipping into the arms of mortality. The shadowy women adorned in black was never far from either of their thoughts; not that they would ever openly talk about it. America had lost people before, he had lost lovers before, and it saddened him to know that someday—although not soon—he would be able to think about Arthur without a hint of sadness.

He was not heartless; it was just how nations were made to think.

Arthur Kirkland was a lonely man to say the least, spending his days surrounded by the countries of the world; all the while by the side of the United States of America. The powerful nation had told him that it was not healthy, that he should socialise with his own kind, but he always dismissed these words. All he needed was the wedding band on his finger, and the man it tied him to and that was that. Although, as Arthur's age rolled into his thirties, he yearned to have a child; America was thus forced to sit him down and tell him the truth. The personifications were supposed to be a secret; therefore they were not allowed to have children.

And America was sure that after that, Arthur was going to leave to find another mortal citizen.

But he did not. He stayed, and went about his general duties that he took up in his job as house husband. Slightly quieter than usual, and he would spend a long time looking at their spare bedroom with longing; America would watch him. He would stand at the door, just simply looking in. During their love making, Arthur would mumble words not of love or adoration, but of pregnancy and children. For a while, the US had thought about throwing caution to the wind and applying for adoption, but each time he would talk out loud to himself about it, Germany would always find out and threaten the ideas out of his head.

Alfred thought about the decisions that Arthur had made in his life a lot, and how wanting to spend the rest of his life with him probably ruined his drastically short life. And none of these thoughts crossed his mind moreso on the day he came home to find a lifeless body on his bed.

He had sensed something was wrong from the moment he walked into the house, call it some kind of lover's intuition, but there was something… Arthurless about the atmosphere in the house; when he opened the door to their bedroom, he dutifully lay behind him, holding his small, frail body close. He held the hands that were cold, and kissed the snowy hair, taking in the scent that was the one thing that never really changed about the Brit over the years. He still smelt of tea, old books and just all over plain. He dared not look at his face, knowing now more than ever, how he had aged would be apparent upon his expression.

But he knew of the ugliness of death; knowing that before any official would get to see the body, he would clean it. Whilst he carried out his duties, he recited the poem that he would have read through the petrified tears, and by the time he got down to the final lines that would be engraved in his tombstone, he had finished the deed. Looking down to the man dressed in just the American's sweat pants, he kissed each piece of skin on his face. He continued this way after he had called the services about finding his father's body. He did not take his eyes away from Arthur's features as he was taken away in a black bag—such an undignified way for him to go, America could not help but think.

And he thought of all of this each year; on the anniversary of his husband's death, without fail, he would make his way to Washington D.C., and wherever he found himself sitting first, he would recite the poem Kirkland had once loved; hoping that somewhere in his heart, some reminisce of the ex-personification of England was roaming, listening unknowingly to the words of literature he had sought comfort in.

\- - - - - - - - -

**End.**

**Author's Note:**

>  **Note** —Part I was actually written for a kink meme fill, but after I realised it didn't fit with the request, I decided to use it for my own idea.
> 
>  **The OTP Contest** —This pretty much sums up everything I love in a pairing. Forbidden love, a relationship that is doomed to fail, and hot men. There isn't much country/human fics, so we need to get more out there!
> 
>  **The Pledge of Allegiance** —I feel as though I may offend some American's with this, but (headcannon time!), I imagine that America likes to hear his lovers—particularly nations—say the pledge of allegiance. Think about it: he's rather egotistical, and so why wouldn't he like his lovers to practically promise their loyalty to him?
> 
>  **States and counties** —As much as I love the fandom, there's something that really frustrates me. The characters are representations of countries, and so surely that means the states and counties within them. I imagine that different parts of the countries represent different states (for America) and counties (for England)… Yeah, that's another headcannon… And I live in Suffolk, and for as long as I can remember I've said I lived on England's arse (which made it awkward when I discovered Hetalia. Sigh. :c), but that's where that idea came from, fyi xD
> 
>  **Geography of USA** —I barely know the geography of my own country, so I'm not going to know a lot about America. I did do a fair bit of research, however…
> 
>  **Part VIII** —This wasn't supposed to be particularly sad; I was hoping to get the view of America across, how he had seen people die before, and had lost lovers, so you'd see it in his light. I hope it worked. D: And the opening lines to the part are what was supposed to be on Arthur's tomb; the final lines of 'Tithonus' by Alfred Tennyson.
> 
>  **Tithonus** —Tithonus fell in love with a Goddess, and so to ensure they could get married he asked for immortality. This blessing turned out to be a curse as he was not given immortal youth, therefore he grew older, but he never died. Fun fact!: He got turned into a cricket to solve this. Great going Ancient Greeks.  
> 


End file.
